Gesundheit
by Twinings
Summary: Good health. Long life. -CAT-


_Disclaimer: I don't own this._

_CATfic. Arbitrarily placed after Techie's "Of Debts and Debt Collections."_

* * *

When Jonathan Crane woke up with a sore throat, his voice worn down to nothing from coughing in the night, he only had two options. He could deal with it himself, hiding his symptoms from his companions as best he could, or he could give in and let the girls baby him. They would do that anyway, of course, but if he didn't put up at least a token fight about it, he would only be encouraging them.

Then again, nothing soothed a raw throat like the hot lemon tea they were always brewing up when anyone showed the slightest sign of sniffles. Maybe it wouldn't kill him to just give in.

When he wandered into the kitchen, the girls were nowhere to be seen. Maybe luck was on his side for once. He poured some water into a cup to boil, stifling a cough with his sleeve.

"You're sick!"

He dropped the cup. How had she managed to sneak up on him like that?

"I'm fine, Al." Oh, he didn't _sound_ fine. He sounded like he'd just been strangled half to death and left out in the rain.

(But that had last happened over a year ago.)

"Sit down, sicky. I'll take care of you." He let her push him into the nearest chair, but had to protest when he saw her reaching for a saucepan.

"You're not cooking. I don't need any soup."

"I'm not making soup, smeghead. I'm making you a hot toddy."

"_No_!" The effort of raising his voice sent him into a nasty coughing fit. Al ignored him, stretching as best she could to reach the honey on the top shelf.

"I don't think we have any bourbon. You like vodka, right?"

"You're going to burn the place down," he warned.

"Oh, I am not. Just relax."

He moved as far away as he could while Al measured out the Captain's good vodka.

To his immense surprise, nothing went horribly wrong. A few minutes later, Al set down a steaming teacup in front of him. He took a hesitant sip and didn't die.

"How is it?" she asked. He grimaced at the conflicting taste of alcohol and honey.

"Not—" He cleared his throat. "Not completely terrible." His voice was already sounding somewhat normal. "How did you do that?" She smirked.

"Maybe I can't _cook_, but my peanut clusters would bring tears to your eyes, and my hot toddies are magical." She reached out to tousle his hair. He smacked her hand away.

"Don't push it, Al."

"Aw. Fine. Finish your liquor, Squishy. Get a couple more of those in you, and you won't mind a bit."

"You don't think you're going to get me drunk and take advantage of me, do you?"

"Hmm. No?"

He sighed.

"Good guess."

"I thought so." She went back to the stove. "Alphabet or tomato?"

"_Soup_?"

She smirked at him.

"Let's go with the alphabet soup. The Captain gets so annoying when she eats that. One time, I found her stabbing noodles with a spoon to make punctuation."

"Al," he said, "I don't _care_."

"I'm just saying, I think someone should eat the last can before she gets the chance."

"I'm not eating your soup."

"That's okay." She got the can down from the cabinet and went looking for the can opener. "I'll eat it all myself. I'll eat it all and make you watch. I'll eat it slowly, bite by slurpy bite, and pay no attention to that strange growling noise coming from your stomach." She poured the soup into the pot. "Mmm. Smells _so_ good."

He took another gulp of the hot toddy and did his best to ignore her. Maybe nothing would go wrong, after all. She wasn't using the microwave. What was the worst that could happen?

A pillar of electric blue flame shot up from the stove.

Right. _That_ was the worst that could happen.

Al stumbled back with a shriek. Jonathan picked up his teacup and moved out of her way.

"Fuck shit fuck fuck ow shit fire fire hot!" She waved her arm at him, doing little to extinguish the miniature wildfire racing up her sleeve.

Later, he might deny it, but at that moment, his only thought was that he really ought to put her out. He flung he contents of his cup at her without pausing to consider the ramifications.

The alcohol hit the fire and sizzled. Anticlimactically, the light went out. Then the fire flared up again, bigger and hotter than before. Al fell to the ground.

"Stop, drop, and roll," he offered. She was thrashing around enough—and he couldn't deny that he had always wanted to hear her scream like this—but she didn't seem to get the concept of _putting out_ the fire, rather than just flailing like an epileptic.

He picked up the newspaper someone had left on the table, dropped to one knee, and started beating her with it, far more dispassionately than he would have expected after all the times he had fantasized about being in just such a situation. Of course, he may have hit her a few more times than necessary, and maybe a little harder. She didn't know the difference. She was still babbling gibberish at the top of her lungs and flailing desperately when he put the paper down and sat back on his heels. He watched her for a short while, not because there was anything new to be learned, but simply because he was enjoying the show.

It got old, though. Eventually.

"Al!" He slapped the newspaper against her face to get her attention. "It's out."

"Oh…" She went still, panting hard. "You—you put me out?"

"I'd say that's fairly obvious," he answered, poking at her still smoldering sleeve.

"Oh, you _do_ care!" She curled around to throw her arms around his waist.

"No, I don't. Believe me, I really don't." She continued to snuggle, oblivious to his protests. Because he clearly had to teach her a lesson, he resolved not to offer her any medical attention, even after he saw her, later, running cold water over her blistered right arm.

And he had no idea how the burn cream made its way from his medicine cabinet to hers. If no one saw him, it didn't count.

* * *

_Author's note: wasn't ready to post this. Burned my arm just now cooking. Raided Al's first aid kit for gauze. Figured it had to be a sign._


End file.
